A Light on the Water
by Spiderflight
Summary: A failed suicide attempt leaves Renée stranded in Middle-Earth with none other than Boromir, on his way to Rivendell. As distrust gives way to sympathy, and reason to love, who can still distinguish between honor, and matters of the heart?
1. Prologue

**Title:** A Light on the Water

 **Author:** Spiderflight

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own anything the Tolkien Estate lays claim to, nor Peter Jackson's films or the Middle-Earth Roleplaying Game. All original characters are mine.

 **A/N: I will periodically re-upload revised and edited versions of previously published chapters, as well as new content, so apologies if this system confuses you, dear reader!**

* * *

 **Prologue**

The cold air slammed into her like a wall.

For a moment, the warm chatter of the bar spilled into the night air as the door creaked shut behind her. Then, nothing.

It was the coldest winter for the past thirty-five years, or so the headlines of the Rhein-Neckar Zeitung announced. Renée wrapped her coat tighter around herself, but the wind still managed to creep in. She still didn't sober up, and she was fine with that. Tequila and good ol' Jack Daniel's did that for you.

Her lips, tongue and mind were so numb by now that they could've been surgically removed and she wouldn't have noticed.

At this hour, no one was out, especially since it was one of those days between Christmas and New Year's that no one gave a shit about.

Renée walked aimlessly down the narrow, cobblestoned streets of Heidelberg. Her balance was so off that she was glad no one was there to see her lean on the houses from time to time.

There was no need for her to look up and see the same old souvenir shops and tourist attractions lining the alleyways. She knew that the postcard racks and mock-lederhosen crowded behind the glass, the snowglobes and witty signs, and even the lace products, hadn't changed in the four years since. In some ways, it made this homecoming of sorts all the more painful.

Renée stumbled on. To her left, the brass monkey statue grinned like a lunatic; the light of the street lamps accentuated the emptiness within his face in a way that slowly unsettled Renée the longer she looked. She didn't see the familiar sandstone towers of the Alte Brücke until she had already crossed under them.

Eventually, she lurched to a stop. It started to snow, big fat snowflakes covering the rough sandstone until the grainy texture was hidden from view.

Across the old bridge where she stood, the Heidelberg castle loomed over the old university city. Even now, the city wasn't completely silent. In the distance, she could hear the two-tone blare of a police siren, and a dog barking into the night. She stared out, and the castle seemed to meet her gaze. The crumbling edges of its ruins and the empty windows only underlined her own broken, empty state.

For once, she didn't want to be _strong_.

Tears pooled in her eyes, until their combined weight drove them over her cheeks in surprising warmth.

For the first time in months, Renée simply cried. It seemed the right thing to do at this stage - an anti-climax of sensation. It was no more therapeutic than an unflinching compulsion to hold barbed wire as tightly as you could, just to see yourself bleed.

She didn't need to _hear_ the words others said behind her back. She could guess well enough. And it wasn't like they were particularly wrong either. Her own actions had certainly done nothing to disprove the rumors.

Renée knew she was drunk, because in her sober mind, these things had been safely repressed.

The wind blew past her face again, more insistently this time. The Neckar River churned below her, hardly making a noise in the sleeping city. It had come close to freezing several times, and it was only December. It was hard to imagine that 2018 was just around the corner, and that these last days were just the dregs of another painful year.

But there was no reprieve waiting for her in 2018. No hope for better days, because when she torched her bridges, she had stood right in the middle and fallen screaming into the water.

She had written off her degree months ago. Her money was spent; whatever small change she had leftover from the bar, she dug out of her jacket and dropped into the river, one by one by one. And Alec? She shut her eyes, grimacing.

Only a fragile vestige of hope remained: that someone, somewhere, might mourn her passing.

Renée clumsily vaulted the balustrade of the bridge, and let go.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

She had only five seconds to herself. It wasn't even enough time for thought.

Then the water roared up to meet her. Instant agony exploded from her feet upwards with the certainty of a nuclear blast wave. Her face and hands seared in pain; the impact crushed her organs against her spine. Dante's Inferno had nothing on the river, though she could have been in the ninth circle of Hell.

Renée screamed, and freezing water rushed down her throat. Cold cut into her brittle skin, as startlingly sharp as broken glass from a highway collision. The current shifted and hurled her against a bridge pile. For a moment, she thought she had shattered with the impact; instead she feebly curled in on herself. Blood rushed through her ears, deafeningly loud.

With rising horror, she realized that she was being carried down to the floodgates. If she wasn't drowned beforehand, she would be battered against the iron grates until she was nothing but a waterlogged corpse. Black spots crowded her vision now, blooming in and out of sight. Fear, she now knew, was not a feeling; it was a state of being.

Renée wasn't even sure if she was alive anymore.

She had to get out of the river. If it was the last thing she did.

The water battered her again with bruising, bone-breaking force. The perversity of cold and pain threatened her sanity, but also kept her conscious. Renée screwed open her eyes against the onslaught of water.

The surface had to be somewhere…

She had to reach it before the next current dragged her down under again.

Everything burned, and all her muscles protested as she began to claw her way up. She forced the movements until she felt herself tiring, and pushed harder. Another current washed against her, pulling her down and sending her spinning. Her left leg sheared across something sharp and she screamed again, as water rushed indifferently past the flapping skin.

The surface was so far away. If she hadn't been so desperate to reach it, she would have cried. The current kept her near the cutting surface, which turned out to be some twisted structure of iron. Every wave threatened to impale her on one of the sharp projections. But it was also much closer to the surface, and she could save a lot of her flagging energy by pushing off from it.

All of her fear concentrated into a tight fist around her heart, that constricted further with every beat.

Renée waited for another wave to push her up. She feared the darkness crowding her vision now, because once she lost consciousness, she was as good as dead. Her hands grabbed on the iron projections, feeling the rust flake off in her hands. From there, she dragged the rest of her body up in slow-motion. Testing her weight, she sank down to push upwards with all her might. The structure creaked and groaned away from her as she began to claw her way upwards again.

At the same time, something was _tearing_ in her left leg… she could no longer move it as well. She relied on her arms instead...

With rising panic, Renée sensed that she was losing the battle. Her lungs screamed for oxygen. Her strength was failing. But up there, the sun shone.

The sun… Renée thought she'd never see it again. It glittered with the promise of something better far above her, just out of reach. And she would be damned if she died down here.

Nothing else mattered but that sun above her. Every fiber of her body was tearing apart but she was so close-

She broke through the surface mouth-first. Her first breath was agonizingly, beautifully sweet.

Water rushed into and beside her mouth, but she greedily sucked in air anyway.

The light was too bright – blinding. Renée struggled to see the bridge coming up to meet her until she was already under it.

A figure was on the bridge, with a horse. Renée sucked in air for one final, hoarse shout. "HELP!"

...

Tharbad appeared slowly through the mist, as if from a dream. The hazy outlines of crumbling stonework and fallen walls drifted in and out of view. Even the sun seemed pallid here, all detail leached from the world. A damp chill settled on Boromir's skin, and on that of his mount. He heard the rush of the water long before he saw it.

Réodfel's hooves clattered loudly on the stone causeways leading to the city. Weeds and fen had largely reclaimed the land around Tharbad and much of the Enedwaith, but strangely, little grew on the roads. Aside from the river, there were no other sounds to fill the still air.

Boromir passed underneath the remains of the once-great Annon Harn. Little but rubble remained, though he could discern traces of Sindarin inscriptions on the bigger stones.

The silence was unsettling. It was so unlike Osgiliath, or the remnants of settlements in Ithilien, where birdsong took the edge off the loneliness. There was an expectant atmosphere among these ruins, as if ghosts from the Plague Years still lingered, watching.

Boromir wordlessly urged Réodfel on, though he could not suppress the shiver that ran down his spine.

The sound of rushing water was louder now. Some more minutes passed in silent wariness, as Réodfel picked his way closer towards the source. The mist began to dissipate as the morning waxed on, giving Boromir an uninterrupted view of the Greyflood river before him.

It was awesome in its size, raw elemental power surging through its waters. The recent storms had engorged the river to twice its natural breadth. Whole trees had been savagely uprooted and blocked the remaining arches of the Bridge of Tharbad. Whatever riverbanks had been here, were gone.

The bridge itself was more token than present. Centuries of neglect and uncontrolled flooding had taken their toll, and the Greyflood's waters ran freely through the collapsed sections. What remained of the stonework was covered in slippery moss and lichen, and much of _that_ was concentrated on the lone isle in the middle of the river, and not towards either bank.

Boromir shaded his eyes against the Yavannië sun as he scanned the land around him for better fording, and found nothing. If he turned back now, it would be days before he would find a better crossing upriver.

 _Choices, choices..._

He sighed deeply, though no one was around to hear him.

It would have to be the bridge after all.

"Come along, you." Boromir tugged on Réodfel's reins gently. The gelding wouldn't move no matter how much he cajoled. In the end, he dismounted and all but dragged the horse behind him. He needed to cross here, and if Réodfel wouldn't cooperate, then tough. Though he couldn't blame the horse for shying.

Boromir took one cautious step at a time. Each foot carefully tested his weight, before he took the next step forward. The water was colder than the pits of Angmar. It took all his strength to keep his footing and hold on to Réodfel's reins.

Slow, deep breaths. He was trying really hard not to rush, but he couldn't help but feel elated that they had already cleared the worst sections. The ruins of the isle lay behind them, and they had only a little further to go...

Then his right leg dropped a foot deep into the bridge, and he fell hard. The impact managed to knock the air out of his lungs. Freezing water rushed past his leg, and... was the water level... rising? It took only seconds for the initial shock to shift to abject terror as he realized that the bridge was beginning to give way beneath him.

Réodfel snorted and whinnied, as he too sensed the bridge's imminent collapse. The horse shied away from him, hooves desperately trying to purchase on the slimy pavement. By some miracle, Boromir still held the reins in his hand; there was no way he could let go now.

Another chunk of the bridge fell into the water. Réodfel was no longer pacing, but beginning to rear…

 _Damn, damn, damn!_

Boromir's mouth lost all moisture as he saw his death approaching by his own mount. He was trapped; there was no safe way to maneuver his leg out. He felt his arms raise, wrists cross in anticipation of the blow. He closed his eyes, awaiting impact.

An unholy shriek ripped through the air, piercing through the stupor of his mind. It was so desperately primal that it replaced his own fears by a second of surprise, as his head snapped in the direction of the sound. Réodfel whinnied in fear, and ripped the reins from his hand. His hooves connected with Boromir's chest, driving out all the air in his lungs again. He was falling, falling backwards, and the strain on his leg passed excruciating to unbearable faster than lies from an Easterling's tongue. When he opened his eyes again, Réodfel had nearly reached the island.

Another section of the bridge crashed into the water with a roar. Réodfel, almost to the shore, screamed in fear as he fell with the stonework. The river, as ever, continued to surge through the ruins. His eyes followed the course of his mount and supplies, and before he knew it, they had disappeared around the next river bend.

For a moment, it was too difficult to credit the sight. In the next moment, he was all too aware of reality. Fear rushed through his veins, spurring him to action.

He wrenched out his leg just in time. The bridge crumbled further, broken edges on both sides gnashing together like trolls' teeth. It was only a matter of time until the bridge collapsed entirely. He could feel it shifting uneasily under his feet, as the eroded pylons below fought against the Greyflood.

Boromir scanned the river ahead one last time, trying to estimate how far he'd need to swim to reach the shore. Something caught his eye. There was movement out on the water, but it was inconsistent against that of the river. It bobbed up from below the water every so often, but it was so small, so powerless against the Greyflood. And then he saw it raise its hands to claw its way up again...

Whoever it was, was about to drown.

There was no hesitation. Boromir leapt from the bridge, already swimming when he hit the water. He winced a bit; his right leg throbbed even more painfully the more he exerted it.

The water of the Greyflood was flowing fast and strong. As he got closer, he realized that _it_ was female. She had to have been at the end of her strength. Boromir swam faster, ignoring the pain in his leg, relying on the surge of the water to push him ever closer.

He doubted that she even saw him.

Only a few feet separated them; he could see the whites of her eyes. Behind the next wave, she was gone. There was no time for panic.

Boromir sucked in a deep breath of air and dove under to where he saw her last. The river was deafening underwater. His arms reached out blindly in front of him, grasping; it was all he could do, until his fingers caught on fabric.

Boromir pushed forward, or maybe he pulled her close to him. He didn't know. With one hand, he cradled her body against his. With the other, he swam up, his legs snapping like scissors. Someone had lit a brand in his lungs, his arms, his legs, but he knew to cease meant death. When he finally broke the surface of the water, gasping, she - disturbingly so - made no movement at all.

 _Who is she?_ Boromir redoubled his efforts to reach the other shore, never releasing his grip on her.

 _Is she dead?_

Boromir heaved himself onto the riverbank with one arm and with the other tried his best not to drag the woman too much behind him. Taking both her arms, he gently pulled her further away from the river. Water lapped at her boots. The river had taken a lot out of him - much more than it should have. He let out a deep, shuddering breath.

She still wasn't breathing. His fingers ghosted over her neck and wrists, desperately hoping for a pulse. She was so fragile - he was afraid of breaking her - but he couldn't find a pulse. Boromir feared the worst. He bent down and angled his cheek against her mouth. Nothing.

Tipping her head back to stretch her neck, he pinched her nose shut with one hand and opened her lips with the other. _Please, please, please_ , he prayed, taking a deep breath. He angled his mouth over hers and exhaled sharply. He felt along her chest to locate her heart, and when he did, he brought both his hands together and began to push down rhythmically. _Please, please, please_. Every _please_ went with another downward motion until he counted to thirty, and repeated the process.

Seconds, minutes, hours seemed to pass. For Boromir, it was eternity filled with misgivings.

And then, movement.

The signs were subtle - a twitching finger, the hesitant answering beat of a dormant heart - but they appeared with the gravity of an earthquake.

Boromir withdrew his hands hesitantly. Almost imperceptibly, her ribcage rose, and fell, on its own. The longer she lay there, the deeper she began to breathe. Eventually, her agonal gasping settled to quiet, but steady breathing.

Since she had made no protest against his touch, he decided to use the opportunity to examine her for any other injuries. Scratches and bruises in various degrees of severity bloomed across her visible skin. By far the most serious injury was the great gash on her left leg. It didn't bleed, but something, with great force, had cut through her leggings and into her thigh. Compared to other wounds he had seen, it was still relatively mild – she would be able to regain full use of her leg within a month, if it didn't become infected first – but meanwhile, it would hobble her.

It was a cruel irony that whatever medical supplies he'd had were now halfway in the Belegaer. Of all the days he'd think to put his kit in the saddlebags, and not on himself.

He grit his teeth in frustration. There wasn't much he could do for the leg at this point. Boromir tore a strip of his tunic off and twisted it repeatedly to rid it of excess water. He then knotted it around the wound to keep it in place until he could figure out a more permanent solution. He looked back up at her face, checking for change.

Worryingly, she was still pale as death, her lips tinged with blue. He laid his hand on her forehead – it was too cold. A cool breeze swept past, and Boromir shivered. The woman didn't, and it was all the more concerning when he didn't remember her ever doing so.

Looking at his surroundings, Boromir frowned. The Greyflood had washed them down much farther than he would have liked. There were hardly any houses around them, except for some scattered ruins; most had collapsed under their own weight over the years. There was hardly any tree cover - even less so than on the bare Dunland shore - and most of the land had reverted to fen.

The woman made a peaceful sight, with the river lapping gently at her boots. Dark, wet curls fanned around her face in way that was singularly uncontrived. The brutal possibility of her drowning seemed unreal, and yet, in this state she seemed more vulnerable than before.

There was no way he could leave her on her own - not like this. At the very least, he wanted to leave her conscious. And he couldn't deny that a part of him was curious about her.

He quickly slipped his arms under her and stood. His right leg shook with the weight; grunting with the effort, he quickly realized that she was heavier than he had expected - or he was on his way to total exhaustion. Boromir tried his best to be gentle, but sooner or later, the jostling would wake her.

The remains of this once-vibrant settlement were eerie, even in daylight. Moss and lichens had recolonized the gray stonework, in many cases completely covering the carvings underneath. The empty windows and collapsed doorways were obscenely open to the elements, as if in mockery of their deceased inhabitants' efforts. He scanned the ruins for shelter, but much had already sunk into the earth, and the rest was likely to come down on their heads.

He grimaced. The late afternoon light in these northern latitudes was illusory. Nightfall could be little more than two hours away.

Still carrying the woman, he turned down another "street" and ended up in what seemed to be a tradesmans' quarter. The houses here were better preserved. Boromir walked up to the sturdiest-looking one and inspected it from the outside. There was no way of knowing if the door was locked or not. The woman shifted slightly in his arms, murmuring against his chest. With one final doubtful glance towards the door, Boromir held the woman closer to him, cradled her head, and kicked in the door. It gave way in an explosion of splinters and rotten wood.

Inside, light fell in intermittently between breaches in the stone roof. The place was dusty, as if it had remained uninhabited for centuries, but Boromir also saw at least two hearth remains. Proof that, even if months apart, this house saw regular visits. It might have been unsettling if he didn't know that the floods, and the onset of the harvest season would keep most men, even the wanderers, at home.

Finding a mostly clean corner (once he had kicked away the remains of a nest) he slowly laid the woman down onto the ground. His arms ached with the unaccustomed weight.

 _If only that damn horse hadn't-_ Boromir kicked the ground in frustration, regretting it instantly as his affected leg throbbed in protest. Their bare surroundings only made the lack of his supplies harder to ignore. What he wouldn't give for hot food and a change of clothes...

He busied himself with gathering up the remains of the door. It wasn't much once he discarded the iron bands and mouldered sections. He could only hope that this place was too far out of the way to attract much notice if he lit a fire.

She had stirred little when he came back, and that worried him. Boromir arranged the wood into a rough pyramid and used his knife to shave slivers off the drier pieces for kindling. The remains of the nest went into the center, as tinder.

At least he still had his flints on him - he never knew he'd be so grateful for a rushed morning. Boromir knocked the stones together frantically, stealing glances to see if she'd awakened yet. Finally, a spark caught. He fanned the tiny flame until it had reached the size and heat he required.

The woman murmured weakly, instantly drawing his attention. "No, no, no, no," he whispered. "Don't give up on me yet." His fingers ran over her face, pushing the eyelids back, opening her mouth. Everything was normal, so far. But her clothes were still sodden. He checked her temperature again. No improvement.

In one quick jerk, he tore off the jacket. Then he pulled her undertunic up and over her head, tugged off her boots by force and then removed her leggings, and her socks. In a matter of seconds, he had her in her smallclothes. The woman had hardly protested, except to whimper with the sudden cold.

"Shit." He was loath to _handle_ her more than strictly necessary, but he moved her closer to the fire anyway. She could keep her smallclothes on for now. As long as she didn't accidentally roll _into_ the fire, he figured she'd be fine the way she was.

And on that thought, he decided to make himself comfortable as well. (There was nothing else he could do.) Boromir eased his shield off his back with a groan. He rolled his shoulders almost habitually now, but the ache remained.

With deliberate efficiency, he took off the Horn of Gondor, his cloak, and bracers. For a moment, he held the horn in his hands, gently running his fingers across the relief carvings, before laying it down again. He tore off his gloves with his teeth, and tossed them into the shield along with the diverse pouches that held his flints, whetstone, and comb. Finally, Boromir unbuckled his belts, and lay them in as well.

He busied himself with the fire a little longer, pensively staring into its flames. The more he thought about it, the more incomprehensible it seemed that a single day could have taken such a turn for the worse. One minute on the bridge had robbed him of _everything_ \- a horse, supplies… and _time_. And adding insult to injury, the day had pushed a dying woman into his arms, whose survival rested solely on his goodwill.

If he had been even halfway superstitious, he would have cursed the Valar for his current state of affairs.

His clothes were still wet despite his activity. After once again checking on the woman, he thought it safe enough to strip down himself. The movements aggravated his chest, and looking down, he saw the outline of two hooves, livid red against his skin. Nothing that wouldn't heal in a couple of days, though it was quite a sight.

He carefully laid out both of their clothes sets equidistant to the fire to dry.

He glanced disapprovingly at her. By all accounts, she should _never_ have been near the Greyflood, let alone _in_ it.

As she dried off, she began to shiver, and her mouth settled into a pout. Boromir stood and, hesitating, wrapped her in his cloak. It was still damp, but it would help ward off the worst of the chill in the air. The bandage had dried as well; he reapplied it as gently as he could without waking her.

The woman sighed in her sleep, and turned her face towards him. Color was slowly returning to her cheeks. She had fine features, which balanced out an otherwise harsh, angular face. Black haphazardly stained the skin around her eyes, almost like Haradric kohl. Her dark hair was cut even shorter than his own - almost as if she had her hair shorn as punishment. With the fire burning brightly behind her, the slight curves of her body were only accentuated.

Asleep, and nearly nude, she could have been anyone. An outcast Dunlending princess… a northern ranger's daughter… perhaps even a female barrow-wight. The last one made him chuckle. Old magic probably had its limits too. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply appreciate the view. In the drowsy moments between sleep and consciousness, she might even have passed for beautiful. Then, he banked the fire for the night.

He checked the state of their clothes, felt inside for damp. His tunics were dry enough, but her clothes were still full of water. He really didn't want to remain awake until she did, so he pulled on his overtunic. Then he tied on his dagger belt, and kept his sword in easy reach.

He was asleep in a matter of seconds.

...

It was the light that slowly drew her back to consciousness.

Muddled, terrifying dreams had haunted her, but she was swimming upwards towards the distant promise of sunlight. Each movement brought her that much closer to the sun, and heat surrounded her with the gentleness of a mother's touch. Such peace. Such _safety…_ All she saw in her dream was a vision of her swimming upwards. There was no sense of time or urgency.

Renée shifted in her sleep, and the dream shattered. Her bones scraped against coarse stone, and coarse, damp fabric shifted against her bare skin. Groaning, she screwed her eyes open.

There was a fire burning in front of her - or rather, the remains of one. Only a few smoldering embers continued to burn, which was a good thing considering how close her face was to them. Shadows within shadows enveloped the air around the fire, making it hard to judge where she was, or even what else was around her. That last realization scared her more than she cared to admit.

She sat up to see better, but the movement set off a coughing fit that sent shudders throughout her body. Everything ached.

She had never felt so alone, frightened, and cold. Certainly never all three at once.

The coughs eventually subsided enough for her try to think straight. Her last memory involved something about a river… she had been in it, but had she _meant_ to be in it? The darkness, the chaos, the cold… it was all so removed. And yet her hair was damp to the touch. Renée ran her tongue around her mouth and tasted the faintest bitter hint of alcohol. Combined with the general nausea of a hangover, it was pretty clear to her that she must have gotten ridiculously drunk once she entered the bar. But disturbingly, she could not remember anything afterwards.

She had no memory of leaving the bar, or ending up in the river. At this point, it was equally likely that someone had pushed her in, or that she had fallen in herself.

But those answers could wait.

She certainly wasn't in a hospital or hotel. And since no one she knew still lived in Heidelberg, she ruled out any familiar faces within the old university city.

So, considering that she couldn't quite count on her memory just yet, her whereabouts were dependent either on her own actions, or those of a kidnapper. Neither was very reassuring. Especially since she wasn't sure how much those two overlapped.

There were two causes staring her in the face. Either she had been wasted beyond reason or someone had spiked her food or drink. In either case, she had been unbelievably careless in public. It almost served her right.

She could feel tears pricking at her eyes, but she dashed them away with the back of her hand.

"H-hello?" Nothing stirred.

Renée cleared her throat, and called out, louder. "Help!"

For the longest time, she only heard her own shallow breathing. And then, as her ears strained, she heard someone else's breath in the darkness.

Something scraped along the floor and fell into the fire with a _whoosh!_ The embers sparked into new life and greedily licked at the wood; their flames slowly but surely brightened her surroundings. A bigger shadow detached from the rest, and only seemed to grow bigger and bigger in the firelight. It had the rough size and shape of a man - a veritable giant. One flash of fire, and she saw his face.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

It was a man - so she _had_ guessed right - but she had never seen one so feral-looking. A scraggly beard clung to his face. Long, dark, and tangled hair reached down to his impressively muscled shoulders. With the unforgiving shadows of the firelight, the brutal angles of his face were sharp enough to cut diamonds. There was no love lost in those eyes - she knew immediately that she was looking at the face of a killer.

And he was looking straight at her. In safer circumstances, she might have recognized that he probably meant nothing but concern for her welfare, but at that moment, every single thing she'd ever heard about rapists came to mind and she screamed.

Renée scrabbled away from the fire as fast as she could, leaving the blanket behind. The stone was rough and scraped her palms, but nothing could be more important than moving _away_. The only thing that stopped her was a cool breeze that brushed against her bare skin, raising goosebumps.

She couldn't help but look down. It was a stupid thing to do - the man could take advantage of her distraction at any moment - but at that moment, nothing was more frightening than realizing that the only thing she still had on was a matching pink Victoria's Secret lingerie set clinging damply to her body. And worse, the grimiest rag in existence was tied around her thigh, now barely covering a gaping, _weeping_ wound. Renée screamed again.

The man had gotten up. He was slowly approaching her as if she was a frightened, flighty animal. Renée continued to edge backwards clumsily. She was finding it hard to breathe; she had even started to break a sweat, but she'd be damned if she knew how.

He was talking now; softly and gently, with a nice even baritone. If only she could get out into the open... She was an ace at running, and she had no doubt that she could outdistance this guy once they hit a mile. Then her back hit a wall.

 _FUCK!_ She had had no idea that she wasn't even _outdoors_. Why were her hands shaking?

 _You can handle yourself_ , she thought. _No worries_.

He was coming closer, but that was _fiiiine_.

 _He's only one of the biggest and buffest guys you've seen outside of Hollywood. As long as he doesn't catch you, you're fine, you won't die, and maybe you can slip through his hands?!_ She dared to peek through her fingers and there he was, crouched at eye level. The effort and the cold were already starting to have an effect - why else would she be trembling? She stared back defiantly at the man who was blocking her way back to... _his_ fire, she realized.

"Did we have sex?" she blurted out. Mental Renée gave herself a resounding slap. _Way to go, next thing you know, you're encouraging him._

His eyes narrowed as confusion replaced concern. He asked her something slowly and noticeably articulated, as if she were a mentally-handicapped toddler - who might have lost the remaining brain cells huffing glue and bath salts. If anything, _he_ was the one speaking gibberish.

"You _do_ speak English, don't you?" Renée asked, unsure now herself. It didn't add up. He was white, her last memory was from Europe, and pretty much anyone his age - late twenties, early thirties? - should have been able to recognize at least a little-

"Eng-lish? Okay, yes, no and all that? No?" She even tried some phrases in her limited German and Spanish, and threw in some random American Sign Language gestures in for good measure.

Blank looks, mixed with irritation was all she got. What kind of idiot was he?

There was a five-second silence, during which Renée processed three things: he was only dressed in a tunic, which could only be _vaguely_ medieval; he was _right_ in front of her; and... there actually _was_ an opening in the walls only a few feet away. If only she could distract him long enough.

The sky, it seemed, had other plans.

At that moment, a peal of lightning split the sky above them in two, and a second later, the thunderclap that followed was so close that every nerve in her body tingled. The sound alone left her ears ringing for minutes afterward, each additional sound increasingly painful to hear.

And then the rain fell. This wasn't a light summer drizzle; it was powerful and merciless, an unrelenting series of shocks against the roof above their heads.

Renee and the man looked at each other, and both knew that either one of them could hold their own in a staring match. Neither of them were going to get any answers from the other tonight.

The man backed away first. Renée folded even more into herself the moment she saw him move, but he only glared at her, raising his palms. He sent a meaningful glance towards the ceiling, where already rain was falling in in some places, and walked back towards the fire. He raised his eyebrows at her, daring her to come back and warm herself.

If she didn't know better, it seemed as though he was expecting her to be grateful, or at least considered her frustratingly inconsiderate. He didn't really seem to mean her as much harm as when she first saw him, but now both were wary of the other.

If only her swallowing her pride didn't taste so bitter.

Renée forced a wan smile and followed him back, though she made sure to keep on the opposite side. She'd be damned if she gave him any more opportunities.

* * *

 **Footnotes**

the 9th circle of Hell = according to Dante, the 9th circle is the bottommost layer of Hell, in which souls are frozen in an icy lake due to their treachery.

Yavannië = 9th month of the year, by Steward's Reckoning, equivalent to August 22 to September 20 in a normal year.

Angmar = the realm founded by the Witch-King of the Nazgûl, in northern Eriador. No longer a political entity in this time frame.

on resuscitation = The CPR depicted in this chapter is not the correct procedure. Before you even think about touching the victim, you have to size up the scene that the victim is in first. This will help you to see if there are any potential dangers for you approaching the victim or that the victim finds themselves in. This also helps you to see if the victim has any life-threatening wounds that could be more disastrous than CPR itself [if the wound is deep and has bled/is bleeding profusely], because you'd bleed out the victim. Boromir should have checked to see if she has any of these wounds first before performing CPR on her. However, Boromir is also not a trained medical professional and/or lifeguard. :P

The Valar = Tolkien's pantheon of 'gods' that are responsible for managing life in Arda (the created world). There are now 14 (formerly 15 including Melkor, a.k.a. Morgoth) who live in the land of Aman to the West, where the elves travel to from the Grey Havens. Their days of direct interference in Middle-Earth's history have seemingly ended after the drowning of Númenor.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

In the morning, Renée was roughly shaken awake. The man from yesterday said something in his harsh language before getting up from his crouch and walking over to his side of the campfire. For a moment, she had no idea where she was, and then she remembered that she _still_ had no idea where she was.

 _Did last night really happen?_

She rubbed her eyes, irritated at how little sleep she got with nothing but a worn cloak over ground that seemed to grow colder by the minute.

She scowled. Dawn. In fact, it was before dawn, and she could still see one or two stars through the ceiling. She felt worse this morning than in all of her twenty years combined. Why in the _hell_ would someone wake her up this-

The man had already packed most of his gear away, and what didn't fit into the numerous leather pouches was tied to his belt. In the gloom, she thought she even saw a horn, but that couldn't be. She felt vaguely hungry, but the man didn't seem in the mood to take questions about breakfast. In fact, he looked so busy and concentrated that he was starting to make Renée feel guilty about her own lack of effort. Which was ridiculous, if she really thought about it.

"Can I help you with anything?" she asked, a small cough punctuating her question.

He looked up at her, opened his mouth as if to protest, then thought the better of it. He went back to doing what he was doing.

 _Okay then_. Renée looked around, and found her clothes carefully arranged around the cooling ashes of the fire. It was strangely... courteous. She reached out and grabbed her sweater by the sleeve. Her jeans, socks, and tank top were gathered up in turn.

Her boots, she discovered, were placed upside down leaning against the walls of the building. That was uncomfortably far away for someone practically naked to reach without moving.

The man seemed done with his packing and kind of just… stood there, looking at her. Renée looked down at herself, still wrapped up in his cloak, and then at the clothes in her arms. Was he expecting her to change in front of him?

"Can you leave?" She shook her clothes at him. "I'm not changing with you here." He looked at her blankly. "Leave? _Now_?" She pointed aggressively to the wall opening, which now was clearly recognizable as a doorway. Renée waited with her arms crossed until he finally left.

The air was much cooler without the protection of the cloak, but thankfully, it didn't take long for her to put on most of her clothes. All that was left was her jeans… but looking at the bandage, she had her doubts.

Something had definitely seeped through in the night. The bandage was a disgusting combination of chainsmoker-teeth yellow and rust red, and it was already dried stiff, like paper maché - it could nearly pass as an art project of extremely bad taste, hidden in the back of a high school storage room. It would need replacing too, and glancing around, it seemed like the man had left his first-aid kit at home.

Grimacing, she untied the bandage. Thankfully, the smell wasn't as bad as she'd thought, but bile still rushed up her throat.

The wound was extensive. It covered half of the surface of her left thigh, and looked like an incomplete fillet of her leg. Sunrise and the ensuing lightening conditions meant that when she pulled a little at it, she could admire a shallow cross-section of her body, from a worryingly reddening dermis to - at the deepest part - the beginning of muscle fibers. Luckily they hadn't been cut too deeply.

Examining her wound had aggravated it enough for it to start bleeding weakly again. Renée took off her tank top and tore off a strip from the bottom to bind her leg. Hopefully she wouldn't need to put a pressure bandage on it if the bleeding stopped soon. She gently eased into her jeans and miraculously, they fit.

The man came in again a short while later. Renée wobbled to her feet, waiting for the dizziness to pass. There wasn't much for her to do apart from hand back his cloak, which he wordlessly accepted. He set down a giant circular shield with a metal boss in the center, fastened his cloak around his shoulders, and with a grunt, shouldered his shield again.

His eyes seemed to scrutinize her, but she didn't get the feeling that it was personal.

Then he simply walked out.

Nothing happened for a long time. All she could hear was birdsong, not far away. More and more light filtered in from the ceiling. With it, her surroundings became less frighteningly abstract, and increasingly banal. It really _was_ just an old ruin, with traces of frescoes on the walls. For the most part, the frescoes themselves were too dirty to hold much interest.

By far the most salient question was whether he'd come back at all. The _where_ could wait.

Renée struggled over to the doorway. Each step on her gimp leg made her wince in pain, but there wasn't an alternative. Renée took another step towards the door and shielded her eyes against the light.

And for the first time, her mind completely blanked.

Somehow, it couldn't process the stark landscape she stared at.

Her brain was having trouble making connections to the scattered ruins, half-buried in grass and heather, and what she could remember of Heidelberg. Or southern Germany, in general.

There was no accounting for the lack of deciduous trees, or farmland… or even livestock. And the air - for the first time she understood what people meant with the term pre-Industrial, or ecologically remote. It was so unbelievably _fresh,_ that it stung her nostrils just inhaling it.

Whichever way she looked, the same pattern repeated itself across interminable distance.

A landscape of nothing.

Deep inside her, cold was leaching from her center, slowly reaching the tips of her fingers and coiling in her gut. Each breath took a little more sensation from her face, until it tingled with as much empty static as an old television screen.

And in the distance, one tiny figure, with the sun glinting off the metal circle on his back.

Renée gripped the doorframe tighter, if only to keep her legs from giving out under her. She shut her eyes. If she could only just focus on the grit and pain digging into her fingers, and under her nails…

He'd left her to die.

In terms of cruel and unusual punishment, surely, this, this _act_ \- had no parallel.

One, two, and more tears slipped down her face as her heart processed what her mind couldn't.

If she was truly kidnapped, or missing, or _whatever_ \- she sure as hell didn't want to be out here alone. The isolation was enough to put the fear of God in her.

But she would be damned if she was simply going to _accept_ her marooning.

Since he was the only person she had seen since… well, _since_ , he would have to be her guide. There was no way that she could survive on her own out here - even she could concede that. He could name his price later, and maybe at that point, she'd be desperate enough to consider it.

Even the thought of asking her kidnapper for help left a bitter taste in her mouth. But hey, it wasn't as if she had a lot of self-worth left to cling to at this point.

He was already too far to yell to, so she had to get a move on if she was going to catch up to him.

There was no alternative.

...

Boromir had likely travelled a mile before he realized that he was being followed.

At first, he had been wary, and didn't let on that he knew. But at length, he noticed that his follower was neither gaining on him nor had shown belligerent intentions in any way. He turned around to really _look_ , and it was the woman from the river.

She was quite a-ways behind him, and visibly limping. She was too far away to make out her face, but judging by how much she favored her right leg, she must have been in considerable pain. Sometimes, she would pause, but after a few moments, she would pick up the chase again.

It would almost have been endearing, her tenacity, if it wasn't such a hindrance to his own objectives.

There was nothing he could really _do_ at this point to discourage her, so he simply picked up his pace and hoped that she would, eventually, drop her pursuit or fall behind. Pragmatism, however, was unable to completely outweigh his sympathies.

By dusk, he was almost in the shadows of Tharbad again. It had been tough going at times. The viscosity of the mud, and the startling cold of the water made walking difficult, and running impossible. His leg too, made travel increasingly demanding. The closer he came to the ruined city, the firmer the ground became; so gradually, that only at length did Boromir realize he was standing on dry land.

Time had been kinder to this half of Tharbad. Some buildings even sported glass. But perhaps that was less an accident of geography, and more due to the Dunlendings, who might have quarried the west bank for stones in the decades since.

Although he was getting increasingly tired, Boromir kept his wits about him. Whatever honest men had lived here were long since dead, or gone. His right hand automatically reached for his sword before he could stop himself.

 _Damn nerves_. The silence was getting to him, if he was already jumping at shadows. He curled his hand into a fist instead, bouncing it against his leg - as if the simple action was enough to keep him calm.

The further he walked in the city, the more he saw signs of recent activity. The wagon ruts he could cautiously attribute to traders, but the remnants of small traps and thin tracks… they spoke of semi-permanent settlement at least. He resolved to keep his presence as unnoticeable as possible.

Boromir snuck back towards the perimeter of Tharbad. The houses were less well-preserved than in the interior, but they were close to the road he had been originally following. Before… well, before. Hopefully all he would find inside them would be dust and bones.

The house he chose was small, but tucked away enough not to attract immediate notice. Like its neighbors, it was a shell of its former glory; its roof had fallen away, piece by piece, as if a passing god had plucked it off the house and scattered it throughout the city. Boromir avoided the upper story. Its shallow walls were all but naked to the sky, and well he knew how quickly the weather changed here.

The gentle clatter and roll of rocks caught his attention. Boromir dropped into a crouch. It seemed to be coming from where he had originally entered the city. He crept closer. _Was that-_?

"That bloody fool," he cursed under his breath. The idiot woman had managed to find her way to Tharbad, despite having lost the light. The tenacity that had endeared her to him earlier he now recognized as sheer stupidity.

A dull pain was beginning to throb, just above his right eye. As if he hadn't already done more than enough for her. He approached her as silently as he could, keeping to the shadows.

He found her leaning against a pillar, her shoulders hunched slightly. She might have been crying, or simply catching her breath; from his angle, it remained unclear. A few seconds later, she straightened. The mere action ironed out whatever softness he thought he'd seen into obscurity. Her steps were halting, but she walked on regardless.

"Helô?" she called out. It became increasingly clear that she had no idea what she was doing - from the way she was constantly glancing around, to the increasing plaintiveness of her voice. "Ai nô yur aut dhaer somhwaer!" She continued to limp forward, further into the city.

Without knowing it, she walked right past him.

 _Valar be damned_ , he hated this. The next "Helô" was already a little further away. Whatever pity he had for the poor creature was surely misplaced.

The next step brought her to her knees, sobbing. "Yu kant djust lîv mi hir!"

The alien words echoed with savage loneliness. But perhaps more importantly, there was no mistaking the sound for anything other than human. Each syllable increased the likelihood that there would be searchers - for her, and more concerningly, for him, if they were to systematically search the rest of their surroundings.

Boromir drew his sword as silently as he dared. He glanced around. No one yet, but time could still prove him wrong. This time, he made sure that each step he took was loud enough for her to notice. He reached out, but she must have heard him, because in that moment she turned and raised her tear-stained face to his.

For a moment, her face was nearly protean with the range of emotions playing across it. Despair, fear, anxiety, relief, happiness, hope - and then increasingly, rage. A dark sneer marred her face as her eyes burned increasingly bright. She was about to open her mouth when she noticed his sword. Injury and insult almost forgotten, she scrambled up and away from him.

It was heartening to see that this once, she could muster an appropriate response. "Shhh!" Boromir held a finger to his lips, hoping she'd understand that much at least. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, and she took another step back.

Others might be here at any moment. He didn't have time for this.

"Be quiet, and do as I do!" He lunged forward and with his free hand, grabbed her arm and yanked her towards him. There was mutiny in her eyes, but as her leg buckled under her, she clung to him regardless.

Boromir scanned their immediate surroundings, hoping that no one else had heard them. He still kept his sword in hand as he marched them back to the house he had initially chosen.

Above them, the moon was waxing to gibbous. Without it, he doubted either of them would have been able to find their way. The amount of noise she made for her size was incredible; he'd seen oliphaunts move with more stealth.

They approached the house. This time however, a light had appeared further up the street, in another not-altogether-ruined house. How had he not noticed it before? It was faint, but unmistakably firelight. For the first time in a long time, the sight filled him with uncertainty.

Behind him, the woman stilled as she too recognized the light. Boromir turned into the house, trusting to the dark, and distance, to keep them hidden. He could only hope she would do the same; he had precious little idea of what to do should they be discovered.

If only he didn't have the irritating habit of underestimating her stupidity.

Taking advantage of his lapse in attention, the woman twisted herself out of his grip and bolted, best she could, towards the light. He watched her run towards it the way moths were drawn to flame; towards a haven that was her ruin. Before he knew it, he was running towards her.

"Will you just stop and listen to me for once, ignorant girl?" He pinned her close to him, careful not to injure her with the sword in his other hand. She twisted away again, but he caught her by the wrist.

"Laet mi gô!" she yelled. Boromir winced at her volume, and then became angry. He hardened his eyes in warning, but she easily stared back at him.

"Wîl yu djust laet mi gô aulredi?" She aimed a kick at his knees, which he barely prevented. Cheeky bitch was faster than he'd reckoned. "Fakin barber-rían! Halp! Halp mi!" she screeched.

Boromir was conflicted: if he let her go, she could run and give away his position to her co-conspirators; if she stayed, he would have to hit her hard enough to make her unconscious. He hefted his sword higher so that the pommel was level with her head.

"I said, quiet, girl!"

He never would know what he would have done next, because both of them were suddenly staring at the two newcomers to the street. Both of whom had their swords drawn.

...

Boromir's heart sank. It was too late to turn back now though, and even if he did, their curiosity might earn them a cut throat in their sleep. He could only hope that the girl had the good sense to stay out of the way.

The two men facing them were barely a span of yards from them, short swords in hand. The taller of the two had the lankiness of youth, and would likely rely on his reach more than his agility, or footwork. The shorter, and more grizzled and older by far, had a stabler base, and probably knew a thing or two about combat.

It was he who broke the silence first.

"Who are you, and where do ye come from?"

Boromir glanced down at the girl. All mutiny had disappeared; she clung to him like a frightened rabbit hiding from the foxes. At least his sword was still in his hand. He subtly pushed her behind him to free up his left arm.

"We are travellers, on our way to Rohan." He adjusted his grip. He could only hope that no more would appear while they parlayed. "My name is Boromir, and my companion's name is… Randireth. We are sorry for disturbing your peace in any way."

The younger man stepped forward. "We were under the impression that the woman was being injured."

 _Dammit!_ He knew he should have quieted her. "I appreciate your concern, but she suffers spells of incoherence at times. It's a temporary condition."

"Why're you travelling now?" The older man's words drifted before him, and Boromir turned to see him approaching them from behind. His stealth made Boromir uneasy - such skill was generally the purview of rangers only.

"We're hoping to join our-" Boromir's words dried up as the older man advanced further, tracing a circle around them. His eyes lingered on the girl in open appreciation.

"Go on," the other man encouraged.

Boromir swallowed. "We're to meet distant kin in Anorien this harvest season."

The older man had finished his circuit, and stood facing Boromir. Something about the way the man held himself seemed oddly familiar. "You're being coy with the truth, but I'll forgive ye for it this time. Instead of huddling out here in the cold like savages, why don't you join us at our fire?" The man's eyes were unflinching. "You can tell us all of your travails as yet and eat before ye leave in the mornin'."

Boromir's eyes flicked over to the younger man, who immediately straightened up. Posturing seemed second-nature to him. The real question was how justified it was.

The older man made a disparaging sound. "That'll be Tunvan for ye. Idiot upstart most of the time, but he's a good lad. My name's Taenyc."

Boromir was slowly getting the sense that the world was conspiring against him - or at least, his moral center. If he were on his own, he was reasonably certain of his chances. But looking at 'Randireth' by his side, and knowing the likes of these haunted the ruined city, and abandoning her now…

Even if she _was_ stupid enough to follow him in the first place.

Boromir sheathed his sword, and offered his arm.

"Your welcome is greatly appreciated."

Taenyc grasped his arm and only smiled.

...

Whatever words Renée might have thrown at his face died in her throat, as she caught sight of the strangers.

This was not the help she had been expecting, when she first saw the light on the other side of the street. Looking at their hard faces, she wasn't even sure if they were there to help them at all. Suddenly, the man's insistence on quiet made a lot more sense, though she'd die before admitting it.

These weren't normal people living at the edge of civilization, or campers. These were like the man she was - surprisingly, though not self-consciously - clinging too. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved that she wasn't completely alone with the man, or fucking terrified.

Both had swords drawn, and she absently noted that they were clearly shorter than the man's sword - clearly one-handed. They advanced menacingly, stopping just a handful of feet away from them.

One of them called out something, like a question. It was the same strange language the man used. Underneath her fingertips, she could feel him stiffening as he paused, and slowly answered. Her guide - could she call him that? - subtly pushed her further back. A rapid exchange of questions followed - it seemed like they were interrogating him - and she got a sinking feeling that they were nowhere near affiliated, or friendly. At one point the shorter of the two men gestured with his sword towards her.

Out of nowhere, one of the questioner materialized behind them, sword held in easy grip. While his partner hung back in the shadows, this one slowly traced a circle around them. She could feel his eyes stripping her naked as he spoke in that same, calm, measured air he'd had when further away.

Once he'd circled them completely, he came to a stop, right in front of her guide. Though he was at least a head shorter, he seemed more at ease and sure of himself. Another conversation followed; the men clasped forearms.

And in an instant, the round of questioning was over.

The two other men turned and left. Renée was confused to see them go, until the man she had been clinging to followed them. Sighing, he reached for her wrist again and dragged her behind him. She was too confused to protest.

In the dark, it was hard to keep track of time, or distance. All that mattered now was that they were walking towards the light. Her leg was starting to stiffen up with the effort of walking, which made her feel bad about putting so much stress on it, but it couldn't be helped.

The man by her side was unusually silent. She didn't dare look up to see his face.

At length, they reached their destination: an imposing structure of tumble-down stone that lined the main thoroughfare of the site. A crude porch lifted the structure a few feet up from the street. There was light streaming from every window, carelessly spilling onto the ground and the building's surroundings - so much so that Renée could pick apart architectural styles and flourishes among the general shape and remains of the ruins on either side. None of it looked familiar.

The men were waiting for them outside the house; this time, a woman had joined them. In this light, it was clear that these were not your average LARPers. These were medieval peasants, or in the case of the grim woman, Bellatrix Lestrange, dragged through hell and spit out the other side.

Man-from-last-night, a.k.a…. Guide? - finally sheathed his sword. He nodded to the woman, and led Renée into the house, following the others.

...

The firelight inside was nearly blinding after having spent so long in darkness. Surprisingly, the interior of the ruin was furnished, after a fashion. There was a low trestle-table, several chairs, and a chest, tucked away in the corner. Stew was bubbling away in an old-fashioned cauldron.

"Like what you see?" Boromir turned around to face the first of the two men who had accosted them. The amount of effort it seemed to take the man to be welcoming might have been that needed for a stone to soften. "'m afraid we don' have any plates or bowls. You'll have to share spoons."

Boromir nodded curtly. At present, his thoughts were more concerned with the girl and how to deal with her. She'd abruptly gone silent when the men had first appeared - he could only hope she'd stay that way. Perhaps she'd seem less alien to them then.

She still hung back in the doorway, and while he understood perfectly, he roughly tugged her inside. It wouldn't do to seem ungrateful. His improvised name would have to do for now as well.

They took their seats on the scattered chairs; the girl practically collapsed into hers. That worried him - she must have used up every morsel of energy within her to get this far - and then he pushed the thought away.

Evidently, they'd interrupted the company as they were getting ready for supper. The other woman present still hadn't spoken a word to him yet; all her attention was now given over to the knife in her hand, and the steadily smaller pieces of onion on the table. She was holding the knife oddly - as if she'd hurt her wrist, or the knife was designed for other tasks.

Taenyc eased into a chair himself. The other man - Tunvan, was it? - leaned against a wall, pulling out a pipe. No one had said a word since; belatedly, Tunvan noticed it too, and stopped mid-preparation. "Would you like some?"

Boromir was reasonably familiar with pipeweed from itinerant dwarf traders and the occasional ambassador, but the habit never took. Probably because the smell alone was enough to put him off. "No, but thank you."

Tunvan raised his eyebrows. "Suit yerself."

Taenyc, it turned out, made a poor conversationalist. He made introductions - the silent, sullen other woman was named Adondra, a name that suited her as little as the shabby, but sumptuous, red dress she wore - but the room soon lapsed into silence again. Adondra at some point in the night took the cauldron off the fire and plunked a couple of spoons in to signal its readiness, but no one, apart from Tunvan, roused themselves.

Conversation began slowly again, but there was always something behind the words that had Boromir answering much more carefully than he normally would have. They discussed the local weather conditions - apparently, storms were normal this time of year, and weren't they a right bastard to be moving around in? - the particular qualities of certain kinds of knifework, and the possibility of any close settlements nearby. None on that account, which was either an outright lie, or deeply worrying. He'd been counting on reprovisioning soon, or risk starving in the wilderness. The women hardly talked, either to the company or amongst themselves.

Eventually conversation died down enough for Taenyc to openly appraise girl-from-the-river again; the intensity and heat of his gaze was almost slavering in anticipation. The girl noticed too, and shrank further into herself.

"What did you say her name was again? 'Randiz'? 'Randiriel'? Somethin' R, I reckon." The older man's words jarred Boromir out of his half-doze.

"Pardon?" Boromir blinked as he remembered. "Oh. Randireth, I think." He ran his hand over his face in an effort to stay awake, and then remembered his choice of words. _Shit_.

Taenyc had a strange expression on his face now. "Ye think? I'd expect that off a tavern slag, but you're her formal escort, ain't ye? She certainly seems familiar enough with you to give you a proper tongue-lashing." He winked at her, and the girl in turn looked at him with pleading eyes.

Boromir shrugged.

But Taenyc wouldn't let it go. "I bet you two hardly know each other. 'Distant kin' my arse. The only thing keeping that minx from playing 'sheathe the sword' wi' me is the fact that you got her first. And she's so scared, she's actually deferrin' to ye for once."

Each word brought Boromir's blood closer to the boil. It was already bad enough that he was stuck with her, bone-tired, and at their mercy. But Taenyc's insinuations were the last straw he needed on a succession of shit events, and rules of hospitality be damned. Boromir's hand strayed towards his sword.

"Come again?" There was a hard edge to Boromir's voice that hadn't been there before.

"Don't take me for a fool. You're a lordly sort of man - you don't look it much anymore, but you do a piss-poor job of hiding it." Taenyc exposed a series of yellowing teeth in what passed for a leer. "Ye're not the only one 'round here that speaks Sindarin. 'Randireth'… 'Wanderer'. Really?"

A hush descended in the room. The girl looked between them, increasingly frightened.

Taenyc leaned against the table. "Here's the deal. Hand over the girl, and we'll let ye live. We'll fleece ye dry as well, to speed you on your way. We wouldn't want ye wandering over the Enedwaith with such a heavy burden." Taenyc chuckled then, the way a boy does when he holds the life of a small creature in his hands. And crushes it utterly.

A knife had appeared in Adondra's hand; Tunvan was stroking his sword's grip almost reverentially. They were closing ranks, certain of their chances against him.

Taenyc's eyes narrowed as the initial promise of victory gave way to impatience.

Boromir's lips twisted into a wry smirk. "Go fuck yourself." Before Taenyc could react, he'd advanced and kicked his chair out from under him. In the fraction of the second it took for him to get out of shock, Boromir had drawn his sword and blocked his clumsy attack, the sword clanging loudly against the floor.

He could hear another man behind him, and Boromir countered Tunvan's vicious blows. His height gave him incredible reach, but at the expense of his technique. Boromir pushed forward suddenly, and unbalanced, Tunvan failed to block Boromir's sword. It effortlessly tore through the layers of clothing and deep into his bowels. Blood, still warm, arced through the air and onto Boromir's face.

The boy only stared at the blood from his wound as he slumped onto the floor, but Taenyc had already recovered and advanced. The older man held his sword with both hands, and came on fast and strong. Boromir could not say where the man drew his strength from.

Out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly saw another blade coming for his throat. Boromir spun out of the way, and Adondra staggered into the wall in her momentum. The girl had retreated under the table, shaking. Taenyc took advantage of his distraction and dealt a brutal blow that would have decapitated him if he hadn't moved back in time. Instead, the sword cut along his left cheek and part of his chin - not deep enough to be serious, but enough to be distracting.

Again, Adondra came at him, this time armed with a chair. Too busy with Taenyc, Boromir could only manage a kick to her crotch, but it had the desired effect. She collapsed, groaning, the chair skittering across the floor.

Taenyc pressed on. To his shame, Boromir was not in his best shape, and this man was turning out to be an uncommonly good swordsman. He found himself increasingly pushed back towards the table; Boromir scrambled to recover ground.

Taenyc's technique, however, was becoming increasingly familiar. In fact, it was very close to what he taught his own rangers, as Boromir recognized the particular series required to hamstring and gut an enemy.

There was only one flaw in the series. Boromir waited for his opening. Taenyc pulled back to deal the final blow, exposing his abdomen. Boromir was ready. In one stroke, his blade sliced through the ragged furs and leather and skin to scrape against the front of Taenyc's spine.

"M-mercy," he begged. But Boromir had the girl to take care of first.

He whirled around, expecting the woman to attack him from behind. Instead, he saw her smiling. Her dagger was balanced on the girl's throat; her fingers, twisted in the girl's hair to force her chin up. _No_ , he thought. _No, no, no_. The girl was looking at him with mortal fear in her eyes.

"Put the sword down, and I'll let your little slut live," she cooed. The edge of her dagger ran gentle as a caress along the girl's skin, fat beads of blood welling up in its wake.

Boromir took a step forward, and immediately, the pressure of the dagger increased. The girl's neck began to stream blood. She whimpered helplessly as Adondra merely raised an eyebrow at him.

"What do you want?" he ground out.

"What I said. And you leave Tunvan to me." Adondra tugged the girl tighter to her, forcing the blade deeper into her skin. "Do as I say!"

He could only hope that his plan would work. Switching his sword out to his left hand, he slowly bent down and laid it onto the floor. At the same time, his right hand moved to grip the hilt of his dagger.

"That's good. Wait. What are you- AAAArgghhh!" Hilt quivering, his dagger had pinned her shoulder to the wall. Her blade fell out of her hand as she screeched, but the girl still did not move - out of shock or fear, Boromir didn't know. He pushed her out of the way as he advanced to retrieve his dagger from the woman's shoulder. She was sobbing now, but screamed again when he wrenched it loose.

"Who are you?" Boromir demanded. He had no time for tears.

She slumped further against the wall, cradling her shoulder. "We just needed to rest, same as y-you. Did'na want no t-trouble." She met his eyes defiantly, but looked away just as quickly. _She lies._

"Is anyone else coming? How many more of you are there?"

The shift from haughtiness to obeisance was evidently difficult. "Don' know."

Boromir angled the tip of the dagger under her chin. "I don't have the time for games, woman. Answer me."

Adondra sniffled. "Just us." She closed her eyes, and more tears fell. "Please don't kill me."

If she hadn't pulled that stunt with the girl, Boromir might have even considered it. There were a number of different ways he could prevent her from endangering his quest, without having to kill her. He was not above hobbling a person, or removing thumbs, tongues, or eyes.

But the girl had been innocent, and she had suffered for it.

"I can't have you following us though." He slit Adondra's throat quickly before he convinced himself otherwise. The girl gasped, her face as white as snow, but he couldn't have her follow him yet. "Stay," he said, gesturing with the bloody dagger.

Boromir found Tunvan in a state of shock, trying in vain to stuff his organs back inside. He still held his bloodied intestines in his hands when Boromir stabbed into his throat from behind, and dragged the blade down.

He didn't find as much from Taenyc as he would have liked. The blood loss had begun to confuse his wits, but even to the last, the man denied that he and his company were robbers. He had served in Gondor some twenty years past, and fled to back to Eriador after a raping. Boromir cut his throat too, before the man began to curse him.

He had enough dead men haunting him.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The knife was at her throat, and Renée was going to die.

She could see and hear everything, but at the same time, it didn't seem to affect her at all. Yet the blade was digging into _her_ throat, and the smell of _her_ blood was everywhere. She swallowed thickly, and closed her eyes in preparation.

Then her assailant screamed in pain; the knife disappeared from her throat; Renée was roughly pushed aside. She hit the floor hard with her shoulder. Renée turned in time to see her guide take the knife, tug the woman's head back by her hair and slit her throat in one fluid motion.

The gasp left her lips before she could even think about holding it in. His eyes snapped to hers, and Renée shrank back further. He said something and pointed with the knife, still dripping with the woman's blood.

Renée crawled backwards until she hit a wall, and then she simply held herself.

No reenactor was anywhere _near_ that well-trained or efficient.

No roleplay she knew of involved _murder_.

And the most unsettling part of it all was that he didn't even blink an eye at the carnage he'd caused. _As if he was used to it…_

The woman was dying noisily, each shallow breath gurgling out of her throat. Just a little further away, the murderer jammed his knife into the younger man's throat and pulled down. The heat from the fireplace was suffocating; there was so much blood, but also smells of ash and stew, sweat, body odor, and piss. Renée shook her head, but the room still had a dreamlike quality to it.

At the moment, he was still preoccupied with interrogating the older man. Renée crawled along the floor, not trusting her leg just yet. The eyes of the dead woman followed her, and Renée was unwelcomely reminded that the blood on her hands was not her own.

She made it to the door and drew herself up. He still hadn't noticed her. Her leg spasmed with the strain of her first step, and Renée whimpered. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, and pressed on. By the fifth step, she was crying openly.

He must have finished his interrogation of sorts.

She heard his heavy footsteps advancing behind her. _Menacing_. Hindsight hit her like a freight train. She should have spent her remaining strength running as far away as she could, instead of following a psychopath. And now she couldn't even fight him off.

Renée choked out a sob and simply stopped where she was, tears streaming down her face. She didn't protest against the bruising firmness of his grip on her arm, or the fact that he effectively manhandled her back inside. Whatever nightmare this was, at least the end was coming in sight. She wouldn't even think of the other option: that he had saved her for last, that he was going to take his time, that rape was likely the first in a long list of things he had planned for her.

He let go, and unbalanced, Renée landed hard on her ass. She stared up at him, shaking. He was saying something to her again, but she couldn't concentrate, because something warm and wet was trickling down her leg. It smelled like piss.

Judging from the sneer on his face, he'd noticed too. The murderer pointed at her to stay, then turned to loot the bodies. He seemed uncomfortably familiar with doing so, because he wasted no time in patting the bodies down, and cutting apart seams. By the end of it, he must have gained at least five knives, two swords, and a small pile of gleaming gold coins and jewelry hidden in the woman's dress lining.

Renée edged towards the door again as he ripped a long strip from the woman's dress and wound it into a loop around his hand. When he looked up at her, she froze. His disapproval was almost palpable, and she shrank back, and hated herself for her weakness. He continued to rip more strips off until the dress was at the woman's knees. Then he laid down the pile of strips and grabbed the woman by her arms, and hoisted her over his shoulder. It took him no effort at all.

On his way out, he pointed to the floor and looked Renée in the eyes. She couldn't help but shiver. She didn't even want to know what he was going to do with the bodies. It was best not to probe too deeply into his perverted mind.

Sometime later, the murderer returned, and removed the men's corpses as well. He grabbed the younger one by the arms and dragged him out, but the motion jostled the corpse and the man's insides spilled out of him out in a slick, bloody mess. Almost like roadkill. But there were no tinted windows and knee-high truck tires to insulate her from…

Renée already felt the bile creeping up her throat. She had only enough time to aim for the corner before everything came up.

...

She was still sniffling pathetically when he came back, sans body.

Renée wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and with the other, tried her hardest to keep herself from shaking. Maybe if she _pretended_ long enough to feel no fear, it might actually become true. She hoped so. It certainly hadn't been the case with her happiness.

She wasn't even aware he had returned until he came stamping back in again, with a bundle of reeds under one arm. He bent to pick up a strip of fabric from the dress he'd ripped apart, tied it around the bundle, and strode over to her. Renée flinched in anticipation. Instead, like a housewife from an Old-World folktale, he brushed the worst of her vomit away with the reeds and into the fireplace. No fuss, no judgment, and little mess. When he was done, the makeshift broom was leaning into the mantelpiece, slowly catching fire in the hearth.

Why couldn't she stop shivering?

"Shhhhhh," he whispered. Renée felt him touch her knee, and instinctively flinched away. His face fell, and he knelt to meet her eyes. He was saying something, but it almost sounded like an apology. Renée refused to meet his eyes. Her hands were clammy; she wanted to wipe them off on her jeans but that would draw his attention and that scared her half to death.

He touched her knee again, more insistently, and for a moment, the old Renée resurfaced, the one who was more liable to punch pushy guys than apologize for her behavior. The shock was enough to make her pause and see the knife in his hand, while his eyes were full of concern.

"Get the hell away from me!" Renée scrambled backwards against the wall, but he still had his hand on her knee. Whatever gentleness he'd been affecting before disappeared. He barked something at her, causing her to flinch back again and hit her head against the wall. Next thing she knew, he was already cutting into the jeans on her right thigh and exposing her bandage. She was hyperventilating; his grip on her knee was iron; all her senses were working in overdrive. Renée couldn't even think. It must have been someone else's leg; no, her own. And before she could stop herself, she'd kicked him in the gut as hard as she could.

Pure, unadulterated horror shot through her veins.

For a split second, she saw the same ruthlessness in his eyes that preceded his murders, and her heart skipped a beat.

Instead, he closed his eyes, sighing heavily. His shoulders tensed, and released. Renée noticed with Pyrrhic satisfaction, however, that he held his torso more gingerly now than before. He tried again with narrowed eyes.

This time, he gripped her right leg firmly enough to bruise, and sat on her left leg with all his 200+ pounds. The fact that his hand was mere inches away from her crotch was not nearly as unnerving as his cold determination to cut away her jeans to expose the bandage. A final, clean cut, and he could tug her jeans down and away from her thigh.

The smell of sweat and pus and blood had festered under the bandage; now, combined with her regrettable moment of bladder-related weakness earlier, it was potent enough to make her stomach second-guess itself.

The man got up, and returned with a pail of water from outside the house, and more fabric scraps. Cupping his hands, he poured water over the wound. He handed her a strip of fabric, and, not knowing what else to do, Renée complied, using it to gently scrub at the caked-on mess, while he continued to pour water over her thigh.

What was his endgame? His concern unsettled her - she almost preferred the psycho-killer aspect if it meant he'd respect her physical boundaries.

It was clear that the wound had gotten worse with all her exertion; what surprised her was the fact that it hadn't gotten infected yet, apart from small, isolated patches. When they had gotten the wound as clean as they could, he got up again, and held one of the victim's daggers in the fire. At first, she thought he was cleaning it - burning off the blood by fire? - but then he walked towards her with the white-hot blade and she screamed.

When she came to, the dagger had disappeared, but there was pressure on her thigh again. Blinking, she met his eyes; the color reminded her of powdered charcoal, of all things. He quickly looked away and tied the knot on her bandage a little tighter than strictly necessary. _Petty_ , shot through her mind.

But now was not the time. If he was determined to play the hero – with all the attendant violence and chivalry – then by deduction, he had already cast the damsel in this uncomfortably realistic medieval romance.

If she saw the events through his twisted logic, it almost made sense. The mercenary peasants – or whatever else they were – must have been a threat. They were going to kill them. She remembered how the older man in particular had looked at her: she hadn't even been human in his eyes. Just a piece of flesh, that only existed to satisfy his dirtiest fantasies _du jour_.

She didn't know whether or not the murderer felt the same about her. At least he didn't make her feel like covering herself every time he looked at her.

With a sinking feeling, she remembered how her screeching had drawn the mercenary peasants in the first place. How explosive the atmosphere had become at the end, all because of her.

But she also remembered how he had cold-bloodedly attempted to abandon her, in the middle of nowhere, without supplies. How he hadn't even looked back, until she'd made herself enough of a nuisance to bother.

He was still helping her, though.

But nothing in this situation justified _murder_.

She had to play for more time. Her survival depended on it.

She watched as he cupped his hands into the water pail and washed them. Whatever violent urges underneath his skin were gone for now.

 _Now or never._

Renée sat up a little straighter. She resisted the urge to hold herself, swallowing down her nerves like a stiff, single-malt whisky. Until she could get rid of him, he was still – though the thought was almost physically revolting – her best shot at survival.

"Hey… thanks, I guess."

Still no answer.

"What's your name?" she pressed.

The man glanced at her, eyebrows furrowed slightly. Taking it as encouragement, Renée pointed to her chest. "Renée. Renéee." Her nerves were tight enough to snap if he waited any longer to respond.

He grabbed the pot from the table, and sat down heavily next to her. He raised an eyebrow. "Ren?" His face hid nothing, and he might as well have written 'I couldn't have thought of a better name for an idiot myself' on his forehead.

And dammit, if she didn't feel like one herself, trying to make conversation with a lunatic. "Renée," she repeated.

"Rrr. Renei." It was close enough that she wasn't going to bother correcting him. On his part, he looked at her for any more possible distractions, then dug in. Renée was starting to feel the strain of the day pressing on her eyelids. There was no way of knowing if she'd ever be truly safe with him around, but oh God, she needed sleep. She rubbed her eyes, and slung her arms around herself, but her nerves were still too highly strung to even consider relaxing.

The bowl landed in her lap, along with a suspiciously clean spoon. She placed it onto the floor next to her. It was the proverbial last supper, and just looking at it made her deeply uncomfortable.

The man cleared his throat. He made sure she was looking at him before he pointed to himself and simply stated, "Boromir." He repeated the name, and followed it with something unintelligible.. He dipped the spoon into the bowl, and repeated what he'd said, raising it to her lips.

 _I'm no baby you need to feed!_

Renée grabbed it from him and stared at the mess it contained. There were several unappetizing gray chunks of mystery meat floating around in clear broth, and all she could think of was that barely an hour ago, the cook had been menacingly chopping vegetables in front of them. She lowered her spoon.

He grimaced at her, and she knew she didn't have the energy to fight him over it. The last tears she'd shed for the night trickled down her cheek, as she took the first mouthful, then another, and another, until it was empty.

...

In the morning, Boromir wiped the sleep from his eyes and squinted at the morning. Much later than he had meant to sleep, but for once, he didn't blame himself. If Taenyc was right, this would the last time he'd sleep in a proper house for days. There was tension in his back and an ache in his arms, and despite the food yesterday, he still felt faint.

He bent and jostled the girl's shoulder to wake her. Frowning, he tried to remember the name she'd called herself. "Renei. Reneeii. Wake up."

Groaning, she turned to face him and fixed him with a single gimlet eye. It might have been more intimidating if half of her face wasn't covered in soot. There were several tear tracks running through the soot, but there was no way of knowing if he was the cause.

Boromir packed his things, and hesitated to put the shield on his back. It was going to be a long day. What use did it have last night, apart from slowing him down? He gently leaned it against the door. _Théodred would understand_.

From what he could remember of the map, which itself had been grossly outdated, Imladris had been located somewhere close to the High Pass; but for the life of him, he'd forgotten where it was in the Mountains of Mist. He suspected it was vaguely northwards.

There was no choice, if he wanted to avoid another incident like last night. He would have to bring the idiot with him; at least until he found a homestead to abandon her in. He wouldn't even think about the distinct possibility of having to cart her all the way to Imladris.

The girl – Renei, he reminded himself again – was talking to herself under her breath.

Boromir ignored her, and finished tying the knots on his belts. The extra knives he'd scavenged from the brigands' corpses were tucked into both boots. He picked up Adondra's knife and considered handing it to the girl. Then again, she was equally likely to stab him with it. He tied it next to his own dagger instead.

He'd already scavenged what he could from the corpses of the house's former occupants. There was, not as far as he could tell, anything of worth hidden in the rest of the house's furniture. All that remained was the chest in the corner that neither of them had given any attention to last night.

Boromir knelt and dug through its contents. It was clear that this band had been intercepting trade for a while; the contraband inside was carefully selected quality rarely seen outside of the homes of the wealthy. There were mainly silks and jewelry, as well as a substantial collection of castars and tharni.

Nothing ultimately of worth, apart from weighing them down. Nevertheless, he pocketed a few castars, just to be safe.

He was almost halfway down the main street of the city when he realized that she hadn't automatically followed him. _Idiot wench didn't know what was good for her._ Boromir pointedly ignored the little voice telling him that just two days ago, her staying put was the thing he had most wanted for her.

Both his hands had turned to fists by the time he'd reached the house again, but he forced them to relax. Now was not the time for threatening violence.

"Renei?" he called out. He saw her cautiously lean out of the doorway, skittish like a startled deer. Boromir willed himself to look more open to negotiation than he actually was, and it seemed to do the trick. The girl didn't dart back inside again, and continued to watch him.

"Renei, you cannot stay here. There is" - he wracked his brains for reasons to get her to come with him, even as he knew she wouldn't understand him anyway – "no food here," he mimed eating, and shook his index finger, "and nothing to drink. There might be others," he walked two fingers across the palm of his other hand, and pointed towards the house, "who would come investigate. Please." Boromir extended his hand. "I give you my word that I shall not hurt you. Just come with me. Please."

Something in her eyes softened. He took a risk and stepped forward, but she disappeared inside the house again. _Damn!_

He followed her into the house, and it took his eyes a while to readjust to the diminished light conditions within. Gradually, he could pick out the girl from the rest of the shadows and saw that she was shaking. Whether from fear, or tears, or both – he was too far away to tell, and he had a sense that he was close enough.

"Renei, look at me. Look at me!" Startled, she glanced up and met his eyes. "Either you come with me now, and I shall help you to the best of my ability," Boromir pointedly glanced to her bandaged leg, which she belatedly covered with her hands, "or you can die here, and I will leave you here. _Alone_." He extended his hand again, and when she still didn't respond, flicked his fingers towards him impatiently.

The girl pressed her lips together and swallowed. For a moment, he was afraid she would start crying again, but she caught herself and timidly walked toward him.

This time, when he set out, she immediately followed him. She didn't have anything to transport other than herself but she was still heavily favoring her left leg. She followed him through the rest of Tharbad, not complaining or whining once. Boromir pushed on.

After the encounter with the thieves, there was no chance he was going to risk further discovery along the road. Better to abandon it and see where this wild country took him, and keep the mountains in view at all times.

When he had marched on for another half mile, he stopped, and a few yards behind him, the girl - Renei, he reminded himself - stopped as well, trying to suck the air back into her lungs. Fool girl soon wasn't merely gasping, but choking on air.

He took two steps towards her, but she held up a hand, and waved it off. "Aim faín, rîlli. Djust, uh, lîd dhe wei." She only stopped shaking when he'd moved off again.

Since she didn't want his help, he continued to press on at his pace. The river plain was easier to walk on here, with only few patches of exceptionally thick mud, and soon it seemed as if they had put the worst of the fen behind them.

The grand openness of the land unsettled him. Apart from a small part of the Dunland shore, and what appeared to be a middling grove ahead, there was no woodland to speak of. On all sides, for miles in each direction, only grasses, sedges and reeds grew. To the east, the Mountains of Mist reached towards the great vault of sky above. There were few clouds passing overhead; he took it as a good omen that they were heading in the right direction.

Behind him, he heard a splash, and then a muttered curse. He turned around to see that the idiot had stumbled into the pothole he'd easily avoided, soaking her legs up to her calves. There was more splashing, and then the characteristic _hríbbit_ of a frog.

He turned around quickly, holding a finger to his lips. Renei was about to say something, but he glared at her to be quiet. Boromir cupped a hand to his ear. _There!_ The frog wasn't too far away from them.

He teased out his dagger in anticipation. He ignored her death-glares from being stuck in the pothole with the water soaking into her shoes. Boromir settled into a crouch and crept closer.

The dagger was perfectly balanced, perfectly weighted in his hand. Boromir adjusted his grip on the handle. The target, a reasonably fat frog, was at most ten feet away, and the wind was in his favor. A full breath passed. He stood sharply; the knife's blade rested in his right hand, then it had buried itself into the amphibian's skull. All in all, an excellent throw.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see another frog fearlessly poking its head around the reeds. He stretched out his hand to grab it, and predictably, it disappeared somewhere into the river. Boromir contented himself with having gotten this one so easily. He pulled his dagger out of the frog's head, wiping the gore onto some nearby grass.

Boromir inspected the frog for signs of disease or injury, and heard the girl walking up behind him - presumably to gawk over his shoulder. "Can't you just leave me alone," he muttered, and looked up to glare at her. Startled, she moved off and inspected her leg when she thought he wasn't looking anymore. A tick had managed to crawl on his glove; he crushed it with barely an afterthought. So far, he hadn't found any visible injuries or infections on the frog, which was promising.

The frog, he would leave alone for now. There would be time to prepare it for eating soon enough, but he still had daylight on his side. Boromir tucked it feet-first into his belt, letting the arms hang over the sides to keep it in place. It was a cold and clammy presence, but neither did it stop him fantasizing about food.

Boromir kept going. As the day grew longer, the sun seemed to raise greater and greater hosts of biting flies that unerringly aimed for his face. Behind him, the girl seemed to have similar difficulties keeping them at bay, until he turned around and saw that she had slathered mud on every exposed piece of skin she had.

 _Vapid cow_. Although it seemed to be working. She hardly complained after that, whereas he was still swatting them away from his eyes hours later.

The storm hadn't soaked all the grass - some of it could still be used for tinder. Those tufts he deemed useful he ripped off by the handful as he walked, and stuffed it in the pouch for his flints.

Ducks quacked loudly nearby. As he came closer, he could see about three or four - at least two males, and a female. He moved closer, and the sharp sound of breaking reeds undermined his advantage. Alarmed, the ducks quacked louder and took to the sky, shouting their displeasure for all to hear. The dagger had automatically appeared in his hand, but he put it away. Pinning a frog was one thing; hitting a flying bird over water was quite another. Still, the sight was heartening. If he could manage to get one of those in the next few days…

...

Dusk was approaching, and Renée was forcing herself to keep up with him. It looked like he was determined to reach the stand of trees in front of them, and judging the distance, it wasn't much further to go. But her leg was becoming increasingly impossible to move without grunting in pain, and the mud she had applied to her face and hands had dried tight enough to smart. Fly protection could kiss her ass; she bent down and washed herself in one of the many tiny rivulets that still crisscrossed the landscape to flow into the great river on their right.

If they continued to keep this pace, she wouldn't last long; not if she wanted to break her leg in the dark, trying to catch up to him again. "Boromir!"

She watched as he stiffened in stride, and turned to face her. The longer she spent with him, the easier it became to read his moods, and the " _What?_ " he must have asked was mixed with exasperation. Renee stayed where she was and waited for him to come over.

"Please, it's my leg. Can we stop sometime soon?" She pointed to the affected area, where the bandage was starting to unwind as she spoke. The skin around it was cherry-red and swelling, but for once, she was hopeful that it was more to do with the cold and exposure than infection.

The scowl on his face as he walked over was sour enough to curdle milk, but she stood her ground. He said several sharp things, but since she had no idea what he meant, it was easier just to look helpless and tired. Which was surprisingly easy now, or she was just getting more practice. Fear was too exhausting to keep up for long.

At one point, he seemed to be pleading for her to make it to the copse of trees in the distance, but she shook her head.

The man – Boromir, she reminded herself, although she still couldn't keep from making a face at the stunningly unimaginative pseudonym – moved off, and left her standing there while he searched out a level place for the night. He soon settled for a patch of ground raised a few inches above the rest of the plain, and waved at her. Renée limped over.

'Boromir' had already cleared the worst of the debris on the site, but there was still a damp log left, and she gratefully collapsed on it. Only for it to splinter and break apart under her weight. One minute, she was sitting; the next, she was sprawled on the ground, and the man was openly chuckling to himself.

Still smiling, with a wry twist to his mouth that wouldn't seem to disappear, he held out an arm to help her back up. She waved him off, and arranged herself more comfortably on the ground.

It had taken her the better part of the day to lose the almost paralyzing fear she had of him. And just when Renée thought she had mastered her fear enough to talk to him, to beg him to stop for the night, he had laughed. Like a normal human being. But why was his humanity so frightening?

Boromir merely raised his eyebrows and collected the remnants of the log. He broke the bigger pieces over his knee and arranged them into a platform upon which he placed the other pieces like a teepee. She'd seen him collect random tufts of grass all day; now, he pulled them out of increasingly unlikely places and fluffed them up in his hands. The little pile went onto a flatter remnant of log as he took out his flint stones and struck them against each other. She scooted closer to watch, but still far enough away that he couldn't reach her. For a long time, sparks flew, but nothing caught.

Later, when the fire was finally stable enough to burn without assistance, Boromir took the frog from his belt and cleaned it. Normally, she would have wanted to see how that was done, but instead Renée busied herself with inspecting her leg. There weren't any new stains on the bandage that she needed to worry about it, so she left it be.

Meanwhile, Boromir threaded the frog carcass onto a stick and held it over the fire. The smell of burning meat drifted lazily through the air and up with the smoke.

It felt wrong, the two of them sitting in silence, even with the language barrier. "Boromir." He looked up from watching the frog. Renée tried for a smile. "What do you" - she pointed at him - "speak?" She opened and closed her hand like a mouth, or a shadow figure without a wall to project on.

He continued to look at her impassively, and Renée wondered if he'd even understood. Then he set down the frog-kebab onto the embers. His hand copied her own motions, and he pointed at himself. "Sôval Phârë." The hand briefly stopped 'talking', then he opened it again. "Sindarin." He repeated the motion, but held the other hand parallel to the floor and shook it slightly. "Adûnaic."

Reneé hardly registered when he pointed at her and raised his eyebrows. Her hand formed the talking motions and she said, "English", but her mind was still racing. _Who the hell speaks Sindarin and Adûnaic?_ _And was the first one Westron? From Tolkien's Middle-Earth?_

Boromir removed the frog-kebab from the embers and used his knife to cut it into four equal pieces. He handed her the right side, and Renée took it, even though it was hot enough to burn her fingers. _Fictitious name, fictional languages… at least the food is real._ The smell alone was enough to make her ravenous, and that wasn't even considering the delicious juices that dribbled down her fingers. Renée dug in greedily, only stopping to pull a bone from her mouth every now and then. It was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted, and it was gone within minutes.

That night, she learned the 'Sôval Phârë' – whichever language it was – words for 'frog', 'fire', 'man', 'female' (she wasn't sure how old he thought she was), 'ground', 'sky', 'grass', 'sword', 'wood', and 'knife'. It wasn't an exhaustive dictionary by far, but it was a start, and that was much better than yesterday. There was no way of knowing if he was making up the words as he went. All she could do was trust in his weird and anal veneration of Lord of the Rings and hope for the best.

The sun had long since set. Renée removed the last of the stones from the ground and lay down. She zipped up her jacket against the cold and stuck her hands into her pockets. Above her were only stars, shining brighter and with more of them in the sky than she'd ever seen in her life - strange constellations, and clouds of dust and light, that she couldn't remember ever seeing in a National Geographic magazine.

Beside her, Boromir stoked the fire one last time. He took out a whetstone and methodically sharpened all his knives. She knew that he would keep watch long after she'd fallen asleep, but somehow, the thought wasn't nearly as concerning as it had been the past few nights. Maybe it was just the realization that whatever he would have done to her, would already have happened by now. The _tshing_ of stone against steel was reduced from something inherently menacing to an organic background noise in the night.

Still, if she really thought about it, there was something fundamentally wrong with the world, or at least, what she could perceive of it. Until she could put her finger on it, there would be no rest.


End file.
